


Destination SPA

by Selly87



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Essential Oils, Flirty!Harry Potter, Head Auror Harry Potter, M/M, Massage, Masseur!Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Shameless!Harry Potter, Smut, The Whole Thing Is Basically Just SEX, You Have Been Warned, did i say smut?, massage oil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 01:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16734345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selly87/pseuds/Selly87
Summary: Harry is absolutely desperate for a massage, but will he still go through with it when he finds out exactly who is going to give it to him?





	Destination SPA

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens in my dark, twisted mind when my personal trainer, post-training, gives me a deep tissue massage.
> 
>  
> 
> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/44221260480/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

With a casual wave of his hand, Harry spells the doors to Destination Spa — _the Ministry’s latest attempt at providing their staff with more_ _feel-good_ _benefits_ — open and walks inside. He heads straight for the reception and his smile grows when he spots his favourite receptionist behind the welcome desk. Despite his weariness and his aching muscles, he keeps his steps light, adds a little swing even and by the time he’s reached the reception desk, his favourite girl is giggling and chewing on her rainbow-coloured pen. “Charlotte, my love, how have you been?” Harry greets her with a lot more enthusiasm than he thought he had left inside of him. He doesn’t do it because he likes her but because it makes her happy. She adores him and he shamelessly milks it because it means that she always finds a way to somehow fit him into his favourite masseur’s crazy schedule. Even last minute. She always finds a way and Harry would love to steal her away and make her his own personal secretary. She gets the job done and as newly-appointed Head of Department, that’s exactly who he needs. He’s tried, more than once, but for some reason, she keeps rejecting him. It doesn’t stop him from asking though and it’s become a bit of a game between them both.

“OK, I suppose,” she answers, gives him an appreciating once-over, and then adds, “a lot better now that I’m looking at your gorgeous face, though. What can I do for you, _Harry Potter_?”

Harry laughs and winks at her, not even remotely fussed about the way she purposefully accentuates his name. She swoons and he leans over the desk, flexes his biceps as he does so, fixes her with a smouldering gaze and gives her a wicked smile. She giggles, flutters her eyelashes at him and he blows her a kiss. She flushes, averts her eyes, then looks up at him from under her lowered lashes. Harry quirks an eyebrow at her, gives her his most dashing smile and intentionally drapes himself all over her reception desk. Once upon a time he would have felt embarrassed about his brazen behaviour but it’s been ten years since the end of the war, and he has grown a bit of a backbone since then. He’s also no longer a scrawny teenager. No, has most definitely turned into a rather fit-looking bloke, he can admit that much. He blames active Auror duty for his broad shoulders, muscular arms, well-defined abdominal muscles, and strong thighs. That and his penchant for going to that Muggle gym near his city centre flat and his fervent love of Quidditch.

“I just handed a murderous case over to the Wizengamot prosecutors and I desperately need a massage,” Harry answers Charlotte’s question and gives her a most sultry look. It’s practically indecent but Harry is desperate to get a professional massage therapist’s hands on him, preferably yesterday, and he’s willing to result to all sorts of mischief to get what he wants.

“Poor baby,” Charlotte coos and Harry nods.

“Please tell me Sydney’s available,” he pleads and his face falls when she shakes her head. The weariness he feels makes itself known and he sighs, looking deflated.

“I’m afraid he’s taken a couple of days off, my dear,” Charlotte informs him and Harry pouts and isn’t even remotely ashamed about his petulant behaviour.

“You break my heart, Charlotte, you really do,” he tells her and she places her hand over his in a comforting gesture. “I’m desperate, I’m sore, my muscles are all stiff, I need some tender loving care,” he continues and deliberately pushes all her buttons. “Work’s been utterly maniac lately, I’m absolutely beat,” he sighs, rubs his very sore and very stiff shoulders, and thinks that Charlotte is probably going to cry if he continues.

“We’ve got a new guy if you’re interested,” she offers and Harry frowns. He’s not particularly fond of stripping down naked in front of someone he’s never met before but he also absolutely craves a massage and is a bit past the point where he gives an actual fuck about who lays their hands on him if they make it good. “He’s absolutely divine, got _magical_ fingers they all say. Makes his own essential and massage oils. Deep-tissue is his speciality, just what you need really, Harry, my darling.”

Harry knows that Charlotte’s consciously laying it on thick — _she would make a great saleswoman_ — but he doesn’t give a toss. He really wants a massage and if Charlotte says that the new guy is good, well then, he trusts her opinion. Explicitly. When it comes to massages and massage therapists, she’s never let him down. “Can you book me in?” he asks and in response, she dangles a key to a private massage room in front of him. She’s got a wicked smile on her and Harry loves her for it. He snatches it off her finger, leans further over the desk and plants a big fat smooch on her cheek. She giggles, flushes and with a wink, Harry peels himself off the desk and heads off to find room number seven.

He unlocks it, steps inside, closes the door and inhales deeply. The room smells of lavender, cinnamon leaf and cedarwood and Harry can feel some of his restlessness seep from his body. He wrangles with his Auror-issued black knee-length dragonhide boots, peels his socks off and sighs when his bare feet sink into the incredibly soft white shaggy rug beneath his feet. He makes short work off the remainder of his clothes and heads for the adjacent small bathroom. He relieves himself, spells the shower jets on and steps under the spray of hot water the moment that steam begins to fill the tiny bathroom. He stands underneath the powerful jets of water, allows them to wash away some of the tension he feels and eventually lathers himself up with a copious amount of soap and washes his hair with lime-scented shampoo. He notes that his hair is getting too long but he can’t be arsed to get it cut and decides to do nothing with it in the foreseeable future.

Once clean, Harry spells the shower off, dries himself with a fresh, very soft towel and tosses that one into the laundry basket by the sink. He grabs another towel, ties it around his waist and grabs a third towel to dry his hair with. He’s still ruffling the towel through his messy and wild dark mop of hair when he steps back into the massage room only to jump half a mile out of his skin when he looks up and discovers his very unpleasant company. He accios his wand, points it at the guy across from him and fixes said nightmare with a wary glare.

“Malfoy, what the fuck are _you_ doing here!” he exclaims and feels rather exposed and very much underdressed…or not at all dressed.

“Waiting for you, apparently,” Malfoy drawls and Harry frowns.

“Who told you I was here?”

Malfoy responds with a mocking eyeroll. “Nobody. Charlotte told me I had a client waiting,” he says and Harry doesn’t understand why Malfoy is so entirely unperturbed over the fact that he has him at wand point.

“You— _you_ are the new guy?”

“It would appear so,” Malfoy nods. “And you are one of Sydney’s regulars.”

“If you think I’m going to put my wand away and lie face down on that massage table for you to put your hands on me, you’ve got another thing coming,” Harry spits the words out, glares at Malfoy and thinks his blood is going to start boiling if Malfoy doesn’t wipe that bored, haughty look off his face.

“Suit yourself,” Malfoy shrugs and Harry feels entirely unnerved when Malfoy gives him an obvious, and unashamed, once-over, then turns and heads for the door. Malfoy’s hand is already on the doorknob when Harry stops him.

“Malfoy! Where the fuck are you going?” he demands to know and Malfoy half turns, glances at him over his shoulder and smirks, actually smirks. Harry wants to jinx him so badly.

“Back to the staff room. You don’t want my services, no need for me to stay,” he explains and Harry’s wand hand twitches with the urge to fling a hex at Malfoy. It would be so easy, so very easy.

“You can’t just walk off,” he protests and knows that he’s not making any sense.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him, turns his back on the door, leans against it and folds his arms in front of his chest. “And pray tell, Potter, why not?”

“Because—” Harry starts but breaks off. He doesn’t have an answer to Malfoy’s question. “Just get me another masseur, won’t you?” he sighs, shoves his glasses off his face and pinches a bridge of his nose in a weary attempt to ease his frustration. He really wants to hex Charlotte. This is clearly her doing, though how she knows about his and Malfoy’s Hogwarts rivalry is a complete mystery to him.

“I’m afraid no can do, I’m the only one free at the moment,” Malfoy responds and Harry sighs.

“This is a nightmare and I want to wake up,” he mumbles to himself and his wand hand twitches again when he hears Malfoy laugh.

“Potter, I assure you, I’m _not_ a figment of your imagination. I’d be extremely worried if I was,” he says and Harry squints and thinks that Malfoy’s eyes are twinkling with amusement. “Now, not to toot my own horn, but I’m really quite good at what I do and you do look like you could use someone to take care of that tension in your shoulders, thighs and back.”

Harry’s free hand almost automatically moves to the back of his neck and he gingerly rubs, tries to ease some of the tension but is entirely unsuccessful in his quest. His eyes fall to Malfoy’s hands and it horrifies him that he’s imagining those long fingers pressing firmly and insistently into his muscles, easing his tension-induced headache, brought on by the rigid muscles surrounding his cervical vertebrae.

“You’re not—” he starts, trails off, looks at Malfoy and appraises him quietly. He hasn’t seen or spoken to him in ten years and this sudden confrontation is entirely too much for his overtired brain to cope with. But _boy_ , does he want that massage. He wants it so badly, he doesn’t even really care anymore about the fact that all he’s wearing is a towel. He, quite uncharacteristically for his line of work, throws caution into the wind and lowers his wand. “I didn’t think you’d want to touch me,” he eventually says and notes Malfoy’s long pause before he answers.

“Not particularly, but I can be professional, even if it’s you,” Malfoy says and Harry hesitates for another moment or two, then throws his hands up in surrender, sighs dramatically and climbs on top of the massage table. Normally he would remove the towel from around his hips but today he doesn’t. He takes off his glasses, leaves them on the small table near the top of the massage table and places his face in the face cradle, then rests his arms comfortably at his sides but doesn’t give up his wand, which is an absolute first. Then again, it’s Malfoy who’s about to give him a massage and Harry thinks that he isn’t quite crazy enough to give up all control.

“Work your magic, then,” he instructs and shudders pleasantly when a mild warming charm tingles all over his body. He closes his eyes, is pleased to note that Malfoy has pre-warmed the massage oil and inhales the beautifully fragrant scent deeply. It’s somewhat heavy and sweet and slightly fruity and floral and it befuddles him a little. He tenses a bit when Malfoy’s fingers connect with the taut skin of his back and he grips his wand a little tighter. Malfoy expertly spreads the massage oil all over his back and shoulders, rubs it into his skin and gradually increases the pressure. Harry notes that he’s mostly using the balls of his hands and shivers a little when Malfoy’s long slender fingers glide over his shoulders and his thumbs rub insistent circles at the top of Harry’s neck, just below his skull. Harry sighs and purposefully swallows a groan when the pressure intensifies. Malfoy’s thumbs expertly seek out a knot of tension in his muscles and he presses against it, alternates between circling his oil-slickened thumbs over the sore muscle and increasing the pressure.

Harry sighs, tightens his hold on his wand, then relaxes his grip. Malfoy is so frightfully close to his jugular that should he attempt to wrap his fingers around Harry’s neck and squeeze, Harry, doubts his wand will do him any good. _Stupid, you’re stupid_ , he thinks to himself but doesn’t move. _Too good_ , his mind adds and Harry thinks he is well and truly fucked. Less than five minutes into the massage treatment and _this_ is the effect Malfoy is having on him, he is well and truly fucked. There is no way this is going to end well. “Where did you learn to massage like this?” Harry asks, not because he really wants to talk to Malfoy but because he wants to shut his treacherous mind up. He can deal with enjoying Malfoy’s massage but thinking about it too is more than his brain can handle. It’s more than he can handle.

“France, Thailand and China,” Malfoy responds, increases the pressure a little more and the knot of tension just beneath Harry’s skull gives in and loosens. Malfoy continues to rub it and Harry bites his lips and frowns into the face cradle. The mixture of pain and relief is bittersweet. Malfoy’s fingers travel along the back of his neck, expertly looking for another knot of tension and it doesn’t take him long to find one. He attacks it with small rubs and the perfect amount of pressure and soon enough it gives away. Harry wonders if it would be completely indecent to moan, decides that yes it would and bites his bottom lip hard to keep his mouth firmly shut.

“Why?” he asks.

“Why what?” Malfoy throws the question back at him.

“Why massage?” Harry clarifies.

“Because I’m good at it,” Malfoy answers him without elaborating and his nimble fingers make short work of yet another knot of tension. He changes his method a little and strokes the flat of his hand along Harry’s entire spine. At first, the movement is slow and languid, then he increases the pressure and rubs faster. Harry’s skin warms and burns underneath the touch and Harry flexes his toes. He feels the touch spread through his entire body and desperately tries to compare Malfoy’s style to the way Sydney massages him but draws a complete blank. Malfoy’s fingers once again return to his shoulders and he turns his attention Harry’s left shoulder and rubs the massage oil deep into Harry’s skin. Harry can’t help but groan when Malfoy’s fingers circle in on a particularly sore spot.

“Remnants of a nasty stinging hex,” Harry mumbles and Malfoy hums with acknowledgement, briefly reduces the pressure, changes his approach, and miraculously manages to unknot the tight muscles underneath Harry’s skin that causes him hellish pain at first, then indescribable pleasure. “You—” Harry mumbles but doesn’t say any more because Malfoy’s fingers assault yet another knot of tension and his mind goes blank. Malfoy untwists another two tension knots, then pauses, lightly rubs first Harry’s shoulder and then his entire back. Harry shudders when Malfoy’s fingers briefly push beneath the towel that covers his buttocks, but they’re gone before Harry can decide how he feels about having Malfoy’s fingers on his arse. “How long have you been doing this?” he asks instead.

“Five years,” Malfoy responds dutifully. “Do you interrogate all your masseurs, Potter?” he then asks a question of his own and Harry grinds his teeth and swallows a snarky remark with the greatest difficulty.

“I was just trying to make conversation,” he defends himself instead and Malfoys gives an amused chuckle.

“You don’t have to force yourself to talk to me, Potter, I know you don’t want to.”

Harry ignores Malfoy’s dig entirely. “Charlotte said you make your own massage oils?” he asks.

“Did she now?” Malfoy drawls. “As it so happens, I do.”

“Why?”

“If you can’t work that one out for yourself, you really are a crap Auror,” Malfoy mocks him and Harry clenches his fingers around his wand again. “You never know what they put in the commercial stuff, besides it’s a lot like making potions, not that you’d understand. You were always abysmal at the subject.”

“I’m not a fan of cooking,” Harry growls — _it brings back bad memories of his time with the Dursleys_ — and winces when Malfoy presses his thumb against another knot of tension, circles over it and increases the pressure to the degree that Harry goes rigid. He grits his teeth to stop himself from giving voice to his pain. Just then Malfoy mumbles something and a pleasant tingle washes over Harry. The pain eases, Malfoy pushes past the knot, rubs and Harry’s muscle gives away, loosening beneath Malfoy’s skilful touch. “Are you using magic?” Harry inquires.

“Yes,” Malfoy answers his question directly but doesn’t elaborate and Harry is not yet curious enough to ask. Instead, he sighs when Malfoy adds more oil, spreads it across his back and biceps, orders him to bring his arms up to rest beside his head. Harry obeys and shudders when Malfoy’s hands run along his upper arms, firmly squeezing his biceps. He flexes his fingers, wonders whether he should let go of his wand but decides against it. He does, however, loosen his grip on it and tries to remain relaxed as Malfoy once again runs his hands up and down Harry’s spine with long, languid strokes. Once or twice, Malfoy’s fingertips brush against the top of Harry’s buttocks and Harry hisses each time and wonders whether Malfoy’s going to make him give up on the towel. He thinks Malfoy should but doesn’t want to be the one to tell him. _He’ll just misunderstand_ , he tells himself. The last he wants is for Malfoy to think he’s coming on to him while he’s getting a massage. The thought concerns him a little and he doesn’t quite understand why his mind would even go there but he’s momentarily distracted when Malfoy turns his attention to Harry’s right shoulder.

“Argh,” Harry groans when Malfoy’s thumb identifies a large tension knot and presses against it. “ _Fuck_ , that hurts,” he complains because it really does hurt more than all the other knots of sore muscles combined.

“Breathe through it,” Malfoy says empathetically — _though Harry doesn’t trust him to actually mean it_ — and Harry draws in a shaky breath and locks his jaw when Malfoy increases the pressure, alternates between that and soothing circles and remains insistent, even when the tension knot refuses to budge.

“Maal- _argh_ -foooy!” Harry moans and his fingers clasp so tightly around his wand that his knuckles hurt. Malfoy eases the pressure, then increases it and mumbles that spell that Harry doesn’t understand and that strange but pleasant tingle from before washes over Harry. Just like before, the pain eases, Malfoy pushes past the knot, rubs and Harry’s muscle gives away, loosening beneath Malfoy’s limber fingers. “ _Gah_ , what the fuck are you doing to me?” Harry grunts and blinks away the tears that have gathered at the corners of his eyes. That tension knot was nasty. Truly nasty.

“Loosening you up,” Malfoy retorts and Harry breathes deeply and firmly tells himself to keep it together.

“Could you like not—”

“Not what, Potter? You wanted a deep-tissue massage, I’m just giving you what you want.”

“It fucking hurts!”

“Good, means I’m doing my job.”

“It never hurts this much with Sydney,” Harry grumbles. Part of him knows Malfoy’s making sense but another part of him wants to relax and that is decidedly difficult when it’s Malfoy who’s giving him the massage. Being in excruciating pain doesn’t make it any easier.

“That would probably be because Sydney’s too afraid to go really deep and push you to your limits. Too afraid to hurt Britain’s precious Golden Boy.”

“Ah, and you’re not afraid to go deep now, are you Malfoy?”

“As you can tell, I’m not,” Malfoy says and has the indecency to laugh. It’s a deep, throaty laugh that makes Harry’s toes curl and his stomach flip — _all against his better judgement of course_ — and he flexes his fingers, tries to keep them loose instead of clenched around his wand, but Malfoy finds another knot in his muscles and he doesn’t succeed. The pain is intense and his eyes water just a little bit.

“Fuck! Malfoy, you’re killing me.”

“Circe’s tits, Potter, take it like a man, won’t you!” Malfoy snaps at him and Harry growls but says nothing.

“Just—” Harry starts, trails off and sucks in a sharp breath when Malfoy runs his fingers down his spine, rubs up and down and mumbles something that feels different to the spell that washed over Harry before. He momentarily abandons his attack on all of Harry’s tension knots and uses a gentler approach that makes Harry feel all gooey. Harry allows the massage oil’s scent to attack his senses, breathes it in and tries to tell his brain to switch off. He manages to relax somewhat, breathes through the next tension knot and his grateful when Malfoy doesn’t find any more of those in his shoulders.

As Malfoy’s hands travel down his back and his thumbs massage alongside his spine, his fingers splay out towards Harry’s sides. It takes Harry every ounce of self-control not to move or flinch at the touch because it’s just so gentle and perfect and the right amount of ticklish. Harry sighs, relaxes a little more and for the first time since Malfoy’s started to work on him, he allows himself to really feel. Malfoy’s fingers are gentle, his skin smooth, his nails so short Harry doesn’t feel them at all and his touch is perfect. _Heaven_ , his mind thinks, betraying him shamelessly. Harry sighs and doesn’t want to drift off into a light slumber but doesn’t quite manage to fight the urge either.

He jerks awake again a few moments later when Malfoy’s hands reach his lower back, linger dangerously low and very much at the top of his arse. Malfoy’s fingers continue their search for tension knots. They find one soon enough, push, rub insistently and press deep into the tight muscle. Harry groans, first because it hurts, then because it doesn’t anymore. “Holy fuck, Malfoy, you really are good,” he breathes and Malfoy laughs. A pleasant warming charm spreads from Malfoy’s hands to the rest of his body and Harry feels himself relax even more.

“Why, thank you, Potter. Coming from you, that’s high praise indeed,” Malfoy responds, finds another tension knot and whatever Harry was about to say goes right out of the window as his mind goes blank and a searing pain radiates from the spot Malfoy’s pressing down on. He groans and tries to jerk away to get ease the pain but Malfoy’s thumb is relentless. The pain increases and Harry moans, trembles — _fucking trembles_ — and silently thanks Merlin when Malfoy uses whatever magic spell, he’s been using to ease the pain and undo the tight knot in his lower back.

Once free of yet another knot of tension, Harry forces himself to take several deep breaths, inhales the massage oil and allows it to befuddle him once more. “Can I pull that towel down a bit or will you scream sexual assault if I do?” Malfoy asks him and Harry hesitates for a moment, doesn’t quite know how he feels about exposing his bare buttocks to Malfoy, of all people, but eventually decides that Malfoy’s already seen him as good as naked, so what’s a little more?

“If you can resist the temptation you can even take it off completely,” Harry finds himself saying and instantly wonders where the fuck that thought came from. The last he wants is to flirt with Malfoy while he’s as good as naked and sprawled out on a massage table. That thought doesn’t sound right to his befuddled brain either and Harry can’t help but wonder whether Malfoy uses aphrodisiacs when he makes his massage oils. _I do not want to flirt with Malfoy_ , he firmly tells himself and an evil little voice inside his head instantly refutes his lie, _oh but you do_. Harry bites back a grown and vows to make time for a trip to St Mungo’s to check for spell damage.

“Potter, I can assure you that your scrawny arse does not tempt me in the least,” Malfoy tells him, then yanks the towel away and Harry feels not only exposed but also a little self-conscious.

“I do not have a scrawny arse, thank you very much,” he snaps, feeling rather put out. He knows that his arse is in perfect shape, he’s worked hard to make it so.

“Hm, no you do not. I admit it’s rather round and pert,” Malfoy responds and Harry shudders when Malfoy trails a single finger down the centre of his left arse cheek. He’s vaguely aware that Malfoy is being entirely unprofessional but doesn’t tell him so. He cannot fathom why and doesn’t even want to descent into the darkness of his mind and the horrors that are apparently lurking deep inside. Horrors that include feeling aroused over the fact that Malfoy complimented his arse. Harry bites his lips, keeps that low indecent moan firmly locked inside and decides to say nothing. Malfoy doesn’t say anything else either but resumes his massage and finds another tension knot soon enough. This time Harry doesn’t manage to hold back a moan, sucks in a sharp breath and silently wishes he had something to bite down on.

Several long minutes pass during which Malfoy untwists a few more tension knots and Harry moans each time the pain gets too much to bear. Twice, Malfoy resolves to that odd charm that helps ease the pain and relaxes Harry’s rather tight muscles. When Malfoy adds more massage oil and some of it slowly runs down the crack of his arse, Harry doesn’t quite manage not to clench his arse cheeks tightly together and thinks that the warm oil is entirely too pleasant and entirely in the wrong place. As is Malfoy’s hand, that lingers in the centre of his lower back for longer than strictly necessary. His index fingers rests at the top of the crack of Harry’s arse cheeks and for a split second, he fervently wishes Malfoy would push his finger just a little lower, just an inch between his arse cheeks. His cock gives a pleasant twitch and mortified Harry instantly abandons that idea and firmly tells himself that he will not get hard just because Malfoy is giving him the massage of a lifetime.

As it so happens, Malfoy remains exceptional professional — _with the small exception of his earlier rather inappropriate touch of Harry’s arse_ — and after ensuring that he has indeed untwisted every single tension knot in Harry’s lower back, he moves on to his legs. Unexpectedly, he starts with Harry’s feet and Harry finds the sensation of having his feet coated in massage oil just a little odd, but Malfoy’s touch feels entirely too good to be true and he sighs softly. “You’re better than just good,” he mumbles, flushes a little and hopes that Malfoy didn’t hear him. No such luck though.

“You’re just full of praise today, aren’t you, Potter?” Malfoy teases him, rubs the balls of his feet, presses his thumbs against the heels and Harry wonders why he’s never had a foot massage before. This feels amazing. “If I’d known it would be that easy to get you to say nice things to me, I’d have offered you a massage years ago,” Malfoy adds and Harry sighs. He doesn’t quite know what to make of that statement and wonders if it means that Malfoy would like to hear more nice things or whether he’s just mocking him.

“Your hands are divine,” Harry, contrary to what he firmly believes to be wise or sensible, makes Malfoy another compliment and holds his breath as he waits for a response.

“So easy to please, Potter, aren’t you?” Malfoy responds in a low drawl and his hands travel up Harry’s firm calves. Harry can feel more massage oil dripping onto his skin and he flexes his toes as Malfoy adeptly works the oil into his skin, runs his thumbs along Harry’s left calf and searches for something to untwist. He finds it soon enough and Harry groans and decides that this is most definitely the best massage he’s ever had in his entire life.

“Best massage of your entire life, eh?” Malfoy asks, his words thick with amusement, and Harry is mortified to realise he’s voiced his thoughts aloud. “Never thought the great Harry Potter would melt like this underneath my touch,” Malfoy says, his voice too low and too sultry, and Harry shudders when his cock gives another excited twitch. The sudden and unexpected but highly appreciated warming charm distracts him and he swallows hard, then finds his voice again.

“Don’t let it get to your head, Malfoy,” he says and groans when Malfoy pushes a thumb deep into his calf muscle and forces the tension right out of it.

“I won’t,” Malfoy promises him. He works Harry’s left calf and his right calf, eases all tightness out of it and moves on to the back of Harry’s thighs. He adds more massage oil, rubs it into the back of Harry’s left thigh and Harry sucks in a sharp breath when Malfoy’s fingers push in-between his thighs, spread them ever so slightly and travel upward. Harry shuffles uncomfortably and Malfoy stops instantly, doesn’t move his hands any higher, even though his fingertips are already precariously close to Harry’s cock and balls. _You want this_ , Harry’s mind tells him but he ignores it very firmly because he doesn’t know what _this_ is and how far _this_ would go. _All the way_ , the devil on his shoulder whispers and Harry bites his lips, flushes crimson and is thankful that Malfoy can’t see his face or read his thoughts.

Harry tries to desperately keep his mind focused on the massage and on the fact that Malfoy is, almost effortlessly, easing tension knot after tension knot out of his legs.

“Aren’t your fingers sore?” Harry finds himself asking and Malfoy’s low chuckle travels right down to his cock. Harry curses himself and doesn’t quite understand why he’s never felt this aroused when Sydney’s given him a massage. _Possibly because you’re not attracted to Sydney_ , his mind tries to be helpful and Harry wants to obliviate himself. He’s not attracted to Malfoy, thank you very much, he just had an unhealthy obsession with him back at Hogwarts, one which he’s got well and truly out of his system by shagging an inappropriately large number of tall blond Muggles in his early twenties. The little devil on his shoulder tries telling him that shagging Malfoy is an exceptionally good idea and Harry groans.

“No, my fingers aren’t sore, Potter,” Malfoy finally answers his question and Harry wants to kiss him he’s so grateful for the welcome distraction. Hang on? Did he just contemplate kissing Malfoy?

“Fuck,” Harry swears under his breath and groans again.

“Alright Potter?” Malfoy wants to know and Harry shakes his head. No, he absolutely and unequivocally is not all right but he has no intention of telling Malfoy that. He firmly ignores his raging hard-on, doesn’t even want to know how his prick has managed to grow so painfully hard in the last few minutes and tries to focus on Malfoy’s hands instead. That proves to be a rather stupid idea because presently Malfoy has his fingers splayed out over Harry’s outer thigh while his thumbs are working their way up his inner thigh.

“ _Stop_!” Harry squeaks and Malfoy’s fingers instantly still. They’re less than an inch away from his prick and Harry sucks in a shaky breath and repeatedly wishes for the ground to open and swallow him alive. He wonders whether there is a spell for that.

“I’m not offended that you’re hard,” Malfoy says, his voice low and reassuring and entirely devoid of sarcasm or mockery. “It’s quite normal actually.”

“What did you put into the blasted massage oil?” Harry asks, his voice shaky and his body tense and rigid. He completely disagrees with Malfoy but doesn’t feel up to telling him so.

“Ylang-ylang,” Malfoy answers him, “though I highly doubt that’s the reason for your current predicament, it’s not that potent.”

Harry doesn’t have the foggiest what ylang-ylang is and he also can’t decide whether he wants Malfoy to remove his hands or move them up just a little more. _So inappropriate, Malfoy’s not a whore_ , Harry reminds himself firmly and sighs when Malfoy’s thumbs move lower but Harry isn’t at all excited when they find a tension knot and press into it. Harry doesn’t understand why his inner thigh muscles are this tense but _oh God_ , he doesn’t want Malfoy to stop. With the muscle all relaxed, Malfoy’s nimble fingers once again travel upward and this time one thumb does brush against Harry’s cock. It’s a rather innocent touch and Malfoy doesn’t even comment on it but it’s enough to send Harry’s body into overdrive and his mind into a frenzy. A door in a deep dark corner of his mind, one he usually keeps firmly locked, springs open and every sordid fantasy, he’s ever had about Malfoy, leaps out all at once.

“Fuck!” He breathes, shudders and Malfoy’s hands cease to move. They just rest on the back of Harry’s thighs and Harry feels them burn into his skin and shudders again. He doesn’t understand when exactly things got so far out of hand.

“Is that what you want, Harry?” Malfoy asks, his voice hoarse and oh so sultry. Harry bites his bottom lip, notes that his wand has dropped to the floor and decides that he doesn’t give a fuck. He contemplates sitting up, contemplates looking at Malfoy, but doesn’t have the backbone to do so.

“What do you mean?” He croaks instead and regrets his question the moment the words have left his mouth.

“Exactly what I said, is a fuck what you want?” Malfoy answers him and Harry notes that his voice is still much too low and way too sultry.

“Why? Are you offering?” Harry asks and reckons the connection between his brain and mouth is faulty because he’s just fucking asked Draco Malfoy if he’s offering to shag him.

“I might, depends entirely on you though,” Malfoy teases him and Harry throws all caution into the wind, braces himself on his arms, pushes himself up and sits back on his haunches. He wisely manages to drag the towel, he’s been lying on, up with him and covers his crotch. He looks at Malfoy and his mouth goes dry. Malfoy’s eyes are black and the way he’s looking at him makes Harry want to come. He moans, trails his eyes past Malfoy’s full lips — _he vaguely registers that Malfoy must have been worrying his lips over the past hour or so for them to be this full and red_ — and shamelessly allows his eyes to slide further down still. Malfoy’s black top is too tight to be decent and his grey linen trousers don’t do much to conceal his own arousal.

“You’re so fucking hot—” Harry breathes, reaches out and trails a single finger down Malfoy’s chest and rests it just above the button of Malfoy’s trousers.

“You do have good taste,” Malfoy smirks and Harry groans. He shuffles, grabs Malfoy, draws him closer than absolutely necessary, doesn’t waste a second thought about what’s right or wrong and kisses him. Malfoy sighs against his lips and Harry groans, wraps one arm around Malfoy’s lithe waist and pulls him as close as the massage table allows him. Malfoy parts his lips and Harry doesn’t hesitate to plunge his tongue inside and seek out its counterpart. He doesn’t need to challenge Malfoy to a duel of the tongues and groans when Malfoy’s hands slide down his back and squeeze his arse cheeks. The fingers of Malfoy’s hand slide into the crack and Harry deepens the kiss, practically devours Malfoy and makes a sound he’s never ever heard himself make before. Malfoy’s oil-slicken index finger finds his hole and circles around it. Harry shamelessly pushes into the touch, breaks the kiss and stares at Malfoy.

“This is so completely inappropriate,” he breathes.

Malfoy shrugs. “We’re consenting adults,” he says and winks. Harry’s cock twitches excitedly and he somehow manages to run both his hands along Malfoy’s arms and pull his hands off him.  
  
“You’re overdressed,” he states, then a little more firmly, “ _strip!_ ” He watches Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard but obliges and drags his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the ground. He pops the button of his trousers, drags the zipper down slowly and pushes the trousers and his underwear down in one fluid motion. His cock springs free and Harry licks his lips. “Beautiful,” he whispers, reaches out, wraps a hand around Malfoy’s hard, dripping cock and gives it a firm tug. Malfoy moans and out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees him reach for something that turns out to be the bottle of massage oil. He drips several drops onto Harry’s hand and his own cock and Harry moves his hand to spread the oil.

Malfoy throws his head back, moans and Harry tightens his hold on Malfoy’s cock a little, tugs, slides his hand repeatedly up and down Malfoy’s cock and delights in the positively obscene noises Malfoy makes.

“Draco,” Harry breaths and Malfoy’s head snaps back into position and Malfoy’s black eyes, practically dripping with desire, lust, want and need, focus on him. “Draco,” Harry repeats, “I want you to fuck me, I want you to put your beautiful hard cock inside me and fuck me so hard I’ll see stars.”

“Fucking hell, Potter,” Malfoy breathes, shudders and as if possessed he firmly pushes Harry back on the massage table and Harry falls willingly. Malfoy climbs onto the table after him, nudges his legs apart and Harry lets one leg slide off the table and locks the other one around Malfoy’s waist when he braces himself above Harry.

Harry stares up at him, groans and bucks his hips when Malfoy thrusts against him and their cocks slide almost perfectly together, creating delicious, divine friction.

“This isn’t going to be slow and pretty,” Malfoy warns him and Harry laughs.

“I don’t want slow and pretty, not today. I wand hard, I want fast and rough, fill me up.”

“Your wish is my command,” Malfoy’s smirk is devilish and Harry pulls him down for a kiss. He’s perfectly aware of Malfoy’s oil-slickened hand and moans into the kiss when it trails past his cock, past his balls and straight to his hole. Malfoy shuffles, breaks the kiss and gives himself a little more room to move. He rubs a single finger over and around Harry’s hole and Harry sighs and shudders.

“More,” he demands and Malfoy increases the pressure. Harry tenses, forces himself to relax and Malfoy’s finger slips inside the tight heat of his arse. In to the first knuckle, Malfoy pauses for a moment but continues to push his finger deeper into Harry before Harry can demand more. “Fuck, so good,” Harry moans and bucks his hips when Malfoy’s long finger finds his prostate, pushes, rubs insistent circles over the tiny nub that sends a series of lightning bolts shooting through Harry’s body. He groans in delight but thinks his groan sounds more like a scream and shudders when Malfoy withdraws his fingers, then pushes it back inside and repeats the action several times.

“Malfoy!” Harry moans and desperately wants another finger, wants Malfoy to stretch him, wants him to fuck him already.

“So impatient,” Malfoy chides him, withdraws his finger then pushes two inside. Harry contorts his face, reminds himself to breathe, clenches around Malfoy’s fingers, forces himself to relax. The moment he does, Malfoy pushes his fingers deeper into him, pulls back and thrusts back in. Harry’s hips buck and he moans repeatedly and wantonly and doesn’t even care whether anyone can hear them. Malfoy adds a third finger, thrusts a few times, then stills when Harry places a shaking hand on top of his, forces his eyes open and looks at Malfoy. “Please,” he begs unashamedly. “Fuck me, I need you so bad.”

“Impatient,” Malfoy tells him again, rolls his eyes at him but withdraws his fingers, sits back on his haunches and orders Harry to lean over the massage table. Harry scrambles into a sitting position, slides of the table and insolently bends over the table, braces himself on his forearms and wriggles his arse. Malfoy gives a throaty laugh, gracefully slides off the table, rounds it and massages Harry’s arse and Harry isn’t sure what Malfoy does next but a moment later he feels the tip of Malfoy’s cock rub against his wet and wanton hole, shudders, sighs and mentally prepares himself for what’s about to come. He hasn’t bottomed in a while, which he stupidly didn’t mention to Malfoy and now regrets just a little. Still, when Malfoy asks him whether he’s ready, he nods, takes a deep breath, and wills himself to stay relaxed.

Malfoy slowly pushes into him and the burn is so intense that Harry’s erection falters a little but he relaxes when Malfoy rubs his lower back soothingly and slides one hand up to his shoulder and massages that too. Harry sighs, feels himself relaxes, demands more and Malfoy slides all the way in, gives him a moment or three to adjust, then pulls back, doesn’t pause but snaps his hips and thrusts deep into Harry.

Harry groans, his legs tremble, and his cock twitches. The mixture of pain and pleasure that fills him is almost too much to take and when Malfoy, on the third thrust in, angles for his prostate, Harry's knees give away and he’s grateful that Malfoy has him bend over the massage table. Malfoy fucks him hard, fucks him fast and there’s nothing slow or pretty about the way Malfoy repeatedly slams into Harry, who grips the edge of the massage table so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He whimpers, moans, tries to thrust back but doesn’t manage and gives up trying. Malfoy pounds into him mercilessly and Harry loves it, loves it so much he has to squeeze his eyes shut because _fucking hell_ , he is seeing stars.

“Yes, fuck me, yes, please, fuck, Mal— _Draco_ , please, oh God, fuck—” Harry babbles mindlessly.

“So tight, so fucking tight,” Malfoy groans, grabs both his hips so hard that Harry is sure he’ll have bruises in the morning but he simply doesn’t care and demands that Malfoy fuck him harder still. He really doesn’t give a fuck whether he’ll be able to walk in the morning. “Harry, Harry, Harry,” Malfoy groans his name with every single thrust, his pace fast and unrelenting and Harry is so fucking close to losing it that he barely manages to tell Malfoy. “Oh yes, come for me, gorgeous, yes, spill that hot come of yours all over the table, let me feel you come,” Malfoy encourages him and Harry makes a deep inarticulate sound that is neither a groan nor a moan nor anything really. His entire body shakes and shudders, then tenses up. His balls tighten and his cock twitches and then he slips so hard and so fast that he forgets how to supply his lungs with enough oxygen to breath. He comes all over the massage table, feels his hot come against his stomach and clenches hard around Malfoy’s cock, forcing him deeper. “Fuck, Harry!” Malfoy groans and Harry vaguely registers his half-arsed attempt at another thrust that doesn’t really work out.

Then, Malfoy pumps hot streak after hot streak of come into him and Harry moans. It feels so good. Malfoy slumps forward, covers his sweaty, oily back with his own body and trembles as his orgasm rules over his body. His hips jerk pathetically and he’s shaking and Harry can’t help but wish that the damn massage table was a bed because fuck it, he wants to wrap Malfoy into his arms and lie in a tangled-up mess of sweaty limbs while they both enjoy the benefits of post-orgasmic bliss.

Several minutes pass before Malfoy manages to move and as he slowly pulls out of him Harry, Harry can feel Malfoy’s come slowly seep out of him and run down his legs. Malfoy slowly and rather ungracefully peels himself off Harry’s back, straightens up and Harry somehow manages to do the same. His legs feel like they’re full of jelly and so he leans back against the massage table and winces when his arse protests heavily. He ignores the uncomfortable sting, pulls Malfoy into his arms instead and they kiss, unhurriedly. Compared to what they’ve just done it’s a tender and almost loving kiss and when Harry pulls away a moment later, he can’t help but cup Malfoy’s face and stare into his still dark-grey stormy eyes.

“I’m never going to let any but you give me a massage ever again,” he mumbles and Malfoy chuckles.

“Who would have thought, you are pure filth, Potter.”

Harry shrugs. “You bring out the worst in me, Draco Malfoy.”

“As I said, you’re just full of praise today, aren’t you?” Malfoy laughs and Harry gives in and joins him.

“You absolutely deserve it,” he eventually says, then crooks his head a little to the side and quirks a flirtatious eyebrow at Malfoy. “So, are you coming home with me then, or—?” he asks but deliberately leaves the question unfinished.

“Do you even have the energy for more of the same?” Malfoy asks, sounding a bit amazed and Harry gives him his sweetest smile.

“I will in the morning, in the meantime I need to make sure those precious fingers of yours are well rested.”


End file.
